


Truthteller

by colorado_writing



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-26 20:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorado_writing/pseuds/colorado_writing
Summary: Gwyn asks Azriel to tell the truth. Some of his truths are spicy!! Two years post-ACOSF.Y'all, thank you for the comments!! I can't believe how nice this community is. It just makes my day!
Relationships: Azriel/Gwyneth Berdara
Comments: 28
Kudos: 129





	1. Truthteller

Azriel brushed his two scarred fingers across his lips and stared into the flames of the fireplace, thinking. Well, trying to think. Mostly he was remembering, turning the moment over and over in his mind. He had known Gwyn was capable of surprising him. That was one of his favorite things about her, about their friendship—or relationship, or whatever it was—she constantly knocked him off guard with her jokes, with quick brushes of her fingers against his hands, with insightful questions and observations that revealed age-defying wisdom. Azriel was as used to being surprised as one can be, after almost two years of knowing her. He just hadn’t expected her to kiss him.

Azriel’s head shot up when he heard a hesitant knock on his door. His shadows had failed to alert him to Gwyn’s presence… again. They seemed to enjoy their involvement in her surprises. 

“Come in,” he called, moving his fingers back to his pockets. 

Gwyn entered the room and carefully shut the door behind her. She was wearing a river blue priestess robe of soft wool and a clumsily knitted white scarf that made Azriel crack a smile. Elain had offered to teach Nesta to knit several months ago, and Nesta had accepted the peace offering for what it was, though she had lost several half-finished projects to silver flames of frustration. It was a testament to Gwyn’s love for Nesta that she actually wore her friend’s attempts at scarves. Gwyn smiled back at him, and Azriel sucked in a breath. The snow-white yarn and the flickering fire light made her hair look like liquid amber. 

Gwyn walked toward him on silent feet. Not for the first time, Azriel marveled that the young acolyte moved as gracefully and purposefully as a trained spy. She stopped at the other edge of the hearth from where he stood and placed her hand on the mantle, tapping out a rhythm with her fingers and following his gaze into the flames. Azriel watched the line of her jaw, the curve of her white throat, and the bob of her pulse beneath her skin. And waited. He could hear her practicing Valkyrie breathing and felt a sharp twinge of pain that anything about talking to him could make her nervous. 

Finally, Gwyn brought her hand to the front of her robes. She smoothed her skirts and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a calm strength in her teal green eyes. “Was I wrong? To kiss you?”

Azriel’s eyes widened. Of all of her surprises… 

Two days ago, they had been working together in the kitchens of the House. Emerie had expanded her business to include importing spices to the Illyrian mountains, and she often used the House as a staging area to unpack, label, and repack herbs and spices of a hundred different varieties. Azriel and Gwyn had offered to help unpack a shipment after training, and when Emerie had left the room, frazzled and frustrated by an unexpected extra half-pallet of cinnamon, Gwyn had stood on her toes and brushed her lips against his. In that moment, as her lips met his, the whole world was golden. The afternoon light streaming through the kitchens, the heady scent of warm spices, Gwyn’s copper hair and the light that seemed to emanate from her everywhere she went, never banishing his shadows but welcoming them, curling around them. All of it was golden. 

“No, Gwyn. I wanted you to.” 

Her face softened for a moment, and then returned to her unreadable Valkyrie stare. He knew that she knew he was telling the truth. Several months ago, Gwyn had stopped a training session and quietly asked him to make a promise. She told him that her instinct was to trust him completely. The admission had floored him; Azriel, with his scarred hands and scarred conscience, believed he might be the least deserving male in the world of that trust. But she said she desperately wanted to be able to trust him, and he knew he would give her anything in the world to make that happen. When she asked him to vow to never lie to her, Azriel had sworn it on his own life, without thinking twice. 

Her voice was steady, but almost as soft as a whisper. “It’s just that you haven’t… responded. In any way. I thought maybe I was wrong, that you weren’t over Elain…” Gwyn trailed off, looking embarrassed. They had sparred and discussed military strategy together; they had shared sheets of music and the songs of their childhood and eaten enough food in the streets of Velaris to almost be sick. But this was terrifying. She felt like a teenager, asking for this reassurance, and worse than that she was asking it of a five century-old warrior. 

Azriel took a hesitant step toward her. Gwyn lifted her chin to meet his gaze, showing no signs of discomfort, so he took a second, and then a third. Now just one step from each other, Azriel took a deep breath.

“I was scared, Gwyn. I still am.”

Gwyn frowned up at the spymaster, confused. Scared? Of her?

Azriel nodded, seeing the question in her eyes. He had sworn never to lie, and he would not break that vow now just to save himself from vulnerability. This strong, wise, brilliant, beautiful female deserved more than broken promises. 

“I cherish your trust and your friendship. I hold the responsibility of that trust carefully. I am honored by it.”

Gwyn’s ocean eyes softened, scanning his features, but she did not speak. She knew when he needed time to articulate something. She always seemed to know what he needed, actually. 

“I have wanted to kiss you very much, for a very long time. I promise you, Gwyn, that I do not pine for Elain any longer, and I do not want to be with Mor. I don’t remember how to want them.”

The intensity of Azriel’s gaze sent fire through Gwyn’s body, but she did not step away. He swallowed once, and Gwyen let him see that she watched his throat move. 

“You call me your friend, and that title is the most important one that I have ever held. But I know that as much as you trust me, I am still a male.” A shadow of sorrow crossed over Azriel’s eyes, and he pitched his voice more softly, speaking so gently that Gwyn felt her heart break and melt, all at once. “I am scared that if I tell you what I want, my presence and my desires will remind you of things that you have fought valiantly to heal from. I couldn’t stand to do that.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Azriel brought one scarred hand to her cheek, staring at her with such pain and uncertainty in his eyes that she thought she could cry. “What if it hurts you?”

“Then it’s my pain.”

“What if—”

Gwyn stopped him with a hand to his chest. Azriel stilled under her touch, struck all over again by her incredible bravery. He would not deny her. 

“Then it’s mine, Shadowsinger.”

Standing closely enough now that his breath brushed Gwyn’s face, Azriel told her everything. 

“I want to kiss you for hours, Gwyn. I want to kiss you senseless. I desperately want you to feel safe enough around me to be naked, to know that I would die before you felt afraid with a male, ever again.”

Gwyn wasn’t sure she was breathing. She scanned his jaw, his eyes, his beautiful dark lashes, trying to memorize every part of this moment when the Shadowsinger laid himself bare. 

“I want to make you feel safe and strong and loved—”

“I don’t need a male for those things, Az,” Gwyn interrupted, grinning at him.

He smiled back, grateful for her levity, and stroked her face. “I know,” he said, “but I would love to help.” 

His eyes darkened, and she felt his pulse change under her hand. He dropped his hand from her cheek to his side. When Azriel spoke again, she felt his words thrum through her, straight to her core. 

“Everything you do, everything you say, is music. I want to know the song of your release. I want to hear it over and over again. I want to play it with my hands and my mouth and my cock. I want to make you feel pleasure every day for the rest of my life.”

Gwyn’s lips parted in shock at his admission, at the raw need in his eyes, and at the intense hunger it stirred in herself. Azriel watched her lips and licked his own. His next words came in a rough whisper that sent liquid heat to her core.

“I want to be at your mercy. I want to be tied to your bed while you work. I want you to know I’m there, while you spend a whole day in the library, waiting for you, aching for you.”

He breathed in sharply and looked to his chest. Gwyn followed his gaze and realized that, unbidden, her hand had clenched his shirt so tightly that she was grazing skin with her nails. Azriel panted quietly, once, and looked back to her. 

Then he frowned and looked away, his eyes glazing in a way that told her Rhysand was calling him. Azriel grasped her hand and brushed his lips against it, breathing, “I’ll be back,” before crossing the room in the blink of an eye and silently slipping out the door.


	2. Something Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a short bridge bit to the next Gwynriel chapter. Az deserves all the nice friendship moments!

When Azriel reached the training ring of the House of Wind, Rhys was already there, holding out two Illyrian swords and three knives. Azriel took them and joined Cassian in arming himself, strapping the blades to his body. He looked to Rhys.

“Where are we going?”

“The border of the Middle and Winter. Kallias needs us.”

Azriel cocked his head, and Cassian looked grim. Kallias was a formidable High Lord; it would take a serious threat indeed for him to request assistance. 

Rhys answered the silent question as he rolled his neck. “The kelpie that Nesta killed had friends. They somehow evolved to band together, and… they’re a problem. Two Winter Court children have been taken. Viviane is having pregnancy complications, and Kallias won’t leave her.”

Cassian and Azriel nodded. They all knew that Kallias would do the same for Rhysand, to allow him to stay near his mate. 

“He has able warriors fending them off, but the fighting is brutal, and… Kallias should be able to focus on Viviane.”

“Let’s get heroic,” Cassian quipped, and the corner of Azriel’s mouth turned up as they launched into the night. 

Seven hours later, Cassian and Rhys helped a limping Azriel through the doors of the river estate. 

“MADJA!” Cassian bellowed, “GET IN HERE!”

The healer appeared in an instant, along with a terrified Feyre.

Madja glared at Cassian, as if to chastise him for his tone, but knelt before Azriel. He was bleeding heavily from his forehead and one shoulder had an enormous thorn protruding from the joint. His left knee was twisted to the side in an angle that looked agonizing. 

Madja stood, wiping her hands on her pants, and looked to Rhys. “Take him to my suite. I need to get the thorn out and examine it for poison.”

Rhys nodded, lifting Azriel with a slight expenditure of his magic and floating him carefully into the antechamber of the healer’s rooms. After Nyx had been born, Feyre had asked Madja if she would like to have a private medical office in their home, since the Inner Circle seemed so prone to injury and illness. Madja had laughed, agreed, and requested a raise.

Azriel finally awoke when Madja wrenched the thorn out of him, stifling a scream as Feyre pressed a cloth soaked in antiseptic into the wound. Rhys had asked Feyre to do it. Az might throw him to the ground for the stinging pain, he would never raise a hand to his High Lady. 

As Madja focused on his knee, slowly and agonizingly moving it back into place, Azriel turned to Cassian and Rhys, keeping a grim vigil next to him.

“I did something… stupid,” Azriel choked out.

Rhys raised a brow. “Really? You? I’m floored.”

Azriel tried to roll his eyes but shut them instead as a wave of pain crashed through him.

Cassian brought him back to reality with a taunt. “I’m on the edge of my seat, Az! What did you fuck up?”

Azriel panted, trying to draw breath, and managed to say. “Gwyneth… asked me… what I want. From women. From her.”

Azriel watched his brothers’ eyes grow wide. They exchanged a comically shocked stare, and then Rhys said, “You didn’t…”

“I told her I want to be tied up.”

Cassian burst into laughter. Rhys tried to maintain his caring, concerned expression, but lost control within seconds. 

“She is LITERALLY a PRIESTESS, you imbecile!” gasped Cassian. He and Rhys were both nearly in tears from mirth.

Azriel groaned and shut his eyes, grinning along with them. He loved to hear them laugh, though he should never have told them. The pain had made him weak, and stupid. 

Madja ordered his brothers to either leave the room or grow up, and Azriel was left to think of the many levels of stupidity he had descended to tonight.

Gwyn paced the length of the library in the House of the Wind, gnawing at her bottom lip. Nesta had gone to bed hours ago, having given up on getting Gwyn to calm down. She had given Gwyn a tight hug and whispered, “they’re fine, love, I would feel it if they weren’t,” before leaving, carrying a stack of spectacularly filthy novels to her bedroom.

Azriel was a seasoned warrior, soldier, and spy. He worked dark magic that even the Library didn’t understand, and he had personally taught her how to be lethal with a blade. It was completely illogical to be this worried.

So why couldn’t she sit down?

Gwyn startled at the sound of the small grandfather clock chiming midnight. She groaned. Merrill didn’t take or give days off, and if Gwyn didn’t go to sleep soon, tomorrow would be a mess of headache and fatigue. 

She had just decided to give it five more minutes—just five, that’s reasonable—when a shadow appeared in the window. The amorphous wisp of soft darkness hovered for a moment, almost bouncing, before sneaking through a crack in the glass and swooping through the Library. Gwyn smiled and held out her hand for the shadow. It curled around her wrist, danced in between her fingers and caressed her palm before settling into stillness. It felt, impossibly, as if someone very far away was imagining holding her hand.

Gwyn smiled and moved to the door, at last able to go to sleep.


	3. Flying

Gwyn woke up grinning. The soft shadow had stayed with her all night, curling up against her like a cat. She had slept well, the sun was shining, and yesterday, Azriel had said he wanted to kiss her too.

What a morning.

She dressed in her fighting leathers and carefully pulled her long red hair into two French plaits. For a moment, Gwyn stared into the small mirror on her dresser. Her freckles blurred together across her nose, spreading out into fine constellations over her cheekbones and forehead. She hadn’t always liked them; Catrin’s freckles had been neater, more distinct, and Gwyn always felt that they were more attractive in their organization. But this morning, Gwyn raised her chin in the mirror, met her own gaze, and decided it was beautiful.

Gwyn arrived at the training ring fifteen minutes early, watching the skies. She started her warm-up exercises alone to kill time and burn some of the nervous energy that had her bouncing on her balls of her feet.

The other priestesses arrived five minutes early, as always, talking quietly amongst themselves and moving to their favorite training spots automatically. Mor winnowed in with Emerie right on time—they must have slept at Emerie’s last night—and Cassian arrived five minutes late with mussed hair and a broad smile. Nesta followed shortly behind, still holding a pastry from breakfast and jogging to keep up.

All present and accounted for, save one.

Gwyn glanced to the edge of the training ring and then met Cassian’s eyes. She knew he wouldn’t be here if Azriel was gravely hurt, that he would stay by his brother... so why wasn’t the Shadowsinger here?

Cassian glanced her direction, registered her expression, and then turned to the assembled priestesses.

“Mor will be leading the warm-up today!”

Mor swiveled in Emerie’s casual embrace to squawk at her friend.

“I didn’t prepare, Cass, this really isn’t called for—”

Cassian gave her a self-satisfied grin and said, “If you didn’t want payback, you shouldn’t have stuck me with your tab at Rita’s this weekend. Work them hard, Morrigan.”

Mor stuck her tongue out at him but obliged, starting to lead the group through stretches. Cassian strolled over to Gwyn. She had stayed standing on the edge of the training ring, fidgeting with her shirt hem. Looking up.

When Cassian reached her he spoke gently, in tones low enough that the assembled priestesses couldn’t hear them.

“Az is all right, Gwyn. Just too injured to fly right now, or winnow.”

Gwyn’s eyes snapped to Cassian’s. The air left her chest in a sharp huff, like she had taken a training punch to the gut. The warrior’s eyes softened a fraction.

“I promise he’s all right. Madja just wants to keep an eye on him—he’s on strict orders to rest. You can see him though, if you want.”

Gwyn looked down. Show up at the River House, just to see him? She had gotten a hell of a lot braver in the past two years, but…

“There’s a council meeting tonight—we’ll all be there, and Nesta’s coming. I can bring you, too. It’s no trouble.”

Gwyn’s shoulders relaxed a bit. With Nesta by her side, she could do just about anything.

“Yes, Cassian, I—thank you. That would be great.”

Cassian grinned at her and said, “Now go let Mor kick your ass.”

Gwyn walked back to the training room at seven thirty that evening. She loved being able to watch the sun rise and set over that precious dais in the same day; not a temple, but still sacred to her, still the place where she had fought and found and learned to love herself again.

She wore a simple long-sleeved wrap dress that fell just to her ankles under a short brown jacket. The soft fabric, light enough for the early autumn evening but still reminiscent of her priestess robes, was a rich blue like pure river water. Flowers danced on the hems and neckline in brown, purple and green embroidery. Emerie said this dress made her look like the edge of a creek come to life. Nesta just said she looked hot.

Gwyn smiled when Mor appeared on the edge of the training ring. Cassian had brought Nesta down early to spend some time with Feyre before her house was overrun with the Inner Circle, promising to send Mor up to winnow her to the river house for dinner, and Gwyn hadn’t complained about the excuse to see her friend. Watching Emerie fall in love with Mor had made Gwyn love her, too.

Mor strode towards her across the dais and planted a red-painted kiss on her cheek. “Hello, lovely! You’re a dream in blue, I hope you know that. Are you ready? Elain’s cooking.”  
Gwyn kissed her back and nodded.

“Please, take me to food.”

“You’re just coming for the roast duck?”

Mor waited a moment before winnowing them, giving Gwyn a mischievous look. Gwyn looked back, the picture of innocence.

“The potatoes, too.”

Mor chuckled, and they were gone.

The foyer of the river house was a mess. Coats sprawled haphazardly underneath hooks, and boots littered the ground near the shoe rack, as though the owners had kicked them off with only the most general suggestion of where they should land. Mor rolled her eyes and added her own boots to the pile before striding down the hall.

Gwyn took a moment to calm her breathing before following Mor to Rhys’s office. She wondered, for the umpteenth time, if she would ever get used to being around so many people.

Conversations filled Rhys’s office, overlapping into a warm wall of sound. Gwyn stopped in the doorway. The office was packed—she could see Amren and Varian tucked in an armchair; Rhys and Cassian discussing a document on his desk; Nesta and Lucien engaged in an animated conversation, with a vaguely frustrated Elain playing moderator; Tarquin, for some reason, now giving Mor a warm hug, and—

In an armchair next to the fire, Azriel.

The Shadowsinger’s left arm was in a sling. His right knee was tightly bandaged, and he held a crutch with his good arm. His neck sported welts, as though something had tried to strangle him, and there was a strip of cloth delicately covering a cut on his forehead.

Azriel’s eyes met hers.

Gwyn forgot everything else. The chattering ceased, fading to a vague din in the back of her mind. Azriel held her gaze and reached for his crutch to rise, and then Gwyn was moving, flowing across the room on silent, purposeful steps, striding forward with the singular intention. The moment she reached him Gywn brought her hands to that perfect, wonderful face and kissed him.

Azriel was flying. He was stuck in the river house with an aching shoulder and a nonfunctional knee, grounded as no Illyrian can ever stand to be—but when Gwyn kissed him, he could’ve sworn to the Cauldron that he _flew._ Azriel brought his right hand to Gwyn’s arm, holding her as close as he could without taking his weight off of his crutch. He took a breath to stare into Gwyn’s sparkling, sky-blue eyes, and then slanted his mouth to kiss her again, more deeply than before, to try and tell her with his kiss alone that she was perfect and kind and brilliant. That she was the wind underneath him.

Someone coughed.

Gwyn broke apart from Azriel and looked around the room. The Inner Circle stared back at her with assorted expressions of joy, delight, and disbelif. Mor was actually clapping her hands together and jumping, like a child on Solstice morning, and Amren’s smirk leaned towards approval. Nesta begrudgingly passed Cassian a handful of money, for some reason.

Gwyn’s mouth went completely dry.

Rhys saved her, rising from the desk to greet her with a hug.

“Gwyn! Thank the Mother you’re here. I promise we don’t just think of you as a babysitter, I promise, but… if you have time…”

Gwyn smiled. She had become close to the High Lord and his Lady through the adoration of their son, Nyx. Her songs were one of the only remedies for Nyx’s daily fits of what Mor called “Toddler Bryaxis Time.”

“Where are they?”

Rhys gave her a grateful smile and rubbed his face with one hand. “In the nursery. I think. He learned to fly, sort of. We have to leash him. It’s… been a week.”

Gwyn grinned and turned to leave. “I’m on it.”

“Mother bless you, Gwyneth Berdara.”

“I’ll walk you,” said Azriel, making to follow her.

Gwyn shot over his shoulder, “Actually, I think you’ll sit,” and left the room to the sound of Amren’s delighted laugh.


	4. Just a priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one! It got really fluffy real fast. Idc these nerds deserve happiness!! Thanks y'all for all of the kudos and comments! Can't tell you how much it means to me.

Feyre was slumped in a rocking chair next to the window of Nyx’s nursery, holding a long length of twine and staring up at her son. Above her, Nyx was flapping his tiny wings furiously and turning summersaults in the air. He occasionally dive-bombed his mother, pushing the chair back with a forceful hug before using her chest to kick off again. 

Nyz was having the time of his life. Feyre was exhausted. 

Gwyn carefully closed the door behind her. Her High Lady shot up in her chair, only to slump back down when she realized who it was. Feyre knew she didn’t have to keep up appearances with her, and Gwyn was grateful for that trust.

“Well, this looks fun!”

Nyx turned towards Gwyn’s voice and gave her a beatific smile that warmed her heart completely through. 

“I’m a little sad, though. I can’t fly too! Can we sit down together?”

Nyx dropped from the air, landing in Feyre’s lap with a thump, and shimmied to the floor. Feyre followed him, sinking to the carpet and catching Nyx neatly to unclip his leash. 

The toddler crawled into Gwyn’s lap and gave her an enormous hug. Gwyn pulled a necklace of wooden beads from her dress pocket and looped it around her neck. Nyx reached for it immediately, drawn in by the brightly colored carvings.

Feyre shook her head. “The less he sleeps, the less he wants to sleep. I don’t understand it…”

Gwyn nodded. “The terrible twos earn their name.”

Feyre drew her knees to her chest. “I know he’s a miracle. I love him so much, more than anything, but sometimes, I just… I don’t know. About any of this. I’m so tired, Gwyn. I want a nap. And wine. And a cake.”

Gwyn reached out to grasp her friend’s hand.

“The face that children are a miracle, my High Lady, doesn’t make them any less a pain in the ass.”

Feyre squeezed her hand and threw her head back to laugh.

“Go downstairs, Feyre. I’ll put him to sleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

Feyre leaned in and kissed Nyx on the top of his head before standing up.

“Thank you, Gwyneth. You’re a saint.”

“Just a priestess, High Lady.”

“Join us for dinner, when he’s down?”

Gwyn nodded, tucking Nyx to her chest. His eyes showed a valiant but losing fight against sleep. “I would love to.”

Thirty minutes later, Gwyn followed the sounds of conversation to the enormous dining room. She slipped into the only available seat—right between Feyre and Azriel. Gwyn might have believed this to be a happy accident if Mor, Nesta, and Cassian weren’t grinning like cats caught in milk. 

Nyx had gone to bed quickly. Without his favorite person in the world to antagonize—Feyre—he could be soothed with ten more minutes of playing and a few songs from Gwyn’s childhood. Elain bustled over to set a steaming plate of roast duck, potatoes crisped in butter, steamed spinach and pear salad on in front of her, giving Gwyn a quick squeeze on the shoulder before returning to her chair next to Lucien. 

Azriel turned to her as she started to eat, speaking in a low voice that sent chills down her spine.

“Your monster-wrangling skills are impressive, Gwyn. We could have used you all those years ago against Lanthys.”

“Are you calling your High Lord’s child a monster, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel flashed her a wicked grin that sent color high in her cheeks.

“Not to his face, Valkyrie.”

Gwyn tsked and turned back to her plate. “I’m not sure I have time to keep all your secrets, Az.”

Azriel choked on his wine and Gwyn laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the room and set his shadows dancing.

Later—after dinner passed in a haze of family conversations, good wine, and the warmth of Azriel’s hand in hers—Gwyn walked with Azriel to his study. She steadied him with a soft hand at his back that had Azriel musing on the merits of injury.

Azriel sank into his chair by the fire and groaned. He had held himself together well throughout the meeting and then dinner—his family didn’t need to know he was in pain—but Azriel’s wounds were aching. Something in the thorns of the Winter Court bogs had hurt him, badly. 

Gwyn hovered in the doorway, concern etched on her face. Without speaking, Azriel stretched out his arm to her. She hesitated and he felt a momentary flash of panic before she said, 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Azriel’s eyes softened. 

“You won’t. I promise.”

Gwyn nodded and walked toward him. When she met Azriel’s sweet, hopeful eyes, she settled on his lap and tucked her head against his chest. She couldn’t bring herself to feel embarrassed. She needed to be close to him, to touch him, to breathe in his wild, living scent and know he was okay. Azriel tipped his head to rest on the top of hers and brought the fingers of his good arm to her hair, brushing it softly, again and again. They didn’t speak for a long time. 

Uncharacteristically suddenly, Azriel murmured,

“I am overwhelmingly grateful to find that you still like me, Gwyneth Berdara.” 

Gwyn looked up at him in alarm, almost knocking his jaw with the movement. The Shadowsinger’s dark eyes reflected the flames flickering from the hearth, but she found nothing to fear within them. Only gratitude, warmth, and something else that she wasn’t quite ready to name.

Gwyn reached out her hand, slipping her fingers through his soft dark hair. “I like you very much, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel smiled. Gwyn thought that one of those smiles could bring the whole of Hewn City into sparkling, radiant daylight. 

Gwyn brought her hand to Azriel’s stubbled jaw and asked in an even, casual tone, “Azriel, have you ever been tied up with belts, instead of cloth?”

The spymaster of the Night Court’s mouth fell open in shock. Azriel looked away to unsuccessfully suppress a smile and shook his head as Gwyn giggled at his shaken composure. 

“You are the most surprising creature in the seven courts, Gwyneth Berdara.”

Azriel turned back to Gwyn, capturing her with a look that made her suddenly very, very aware of her own exposed skin. 

“I have.”

Gwyn swallowed and nodded. She didn’t drop his dark gaze. Didn’t falter.

“A character in a book I read did that. He said that the edge of the leather bit into his skin and that he… liked it.”

Gwyn looked back to Azriel, who was concentrating very, very intently on maintaining steady breathing. 

“It made me think of you.”

Azriel nodded, swallowing hard. His gaze found her lips, but he didn’t lean in. He would wait for her in this. Always.

Gwyn glanced to his lips and then met his eyes again. This time when she spoke, it came out as a whisper. 

“There are things I want to try, Azriel.”

He nodded and at last bent to place a feather-light kiss on her cheek, almost at the corner of her mouth. When he pulled back, he brought his good hand to her jaw. 

“You make the rules, Valkyrie.”

Gwyn’s eyes flashed, and Azriel knew he’d hit on something good. She leaned forward to kiss his mouth, his face, his throat, and then his lips again, lingering there as he moved his thumb over the sharp point of her ears. Gwyn could feel his arousal under her thighs and was surprised to find that it didn’t scare her.

She pulled back and took his face in both of hers, giving him a small grin.

“When you’re healed.”

Azriel made a small sound in his throat that made Gwyn laugh out loud. 

“Take it as motivation, Shadowsinger.”

As Gwyn rose to leave, Azriel caught her hand. She turned back to him, about to ask if he needed something from the kitchen or Madja, when he said,

“If you ever run out of books in the Library and the House, Gwyneth, please tell me. I will buy out every store in Velaris.”

Cassian found Azriel in his study, still dazed, almost an hour later. With an absolutely evil grin, Cassian said, "I get to tell you something now." 

Azriel turned his head to his brother and preemptively rolled his eyes. "Go right ahead." 

Cassian smirked. "You're in deep shit."


End file.
